CHAPTER 14 #2
“Then it’s settled.”
“Yes.” Charlotte carefully smoothed a crease from her skirts. “Now, if only the rest of the evening proceeds without a wrinkle.”
* * *
“Well, well, what have we here?” As he entered the parlor, Henning eyed the bottle of Scottish malt on the sideboard and promptly went over to pour himself a glass.
His habitual untidiness seemed even more pronounced—bristly jaw, hair sticking up in spiky tufts, a dark smear of some unpleasant substance on his coat.
Charlotte, who had just returned from fetching the boys, also noted the lines of fatigue beneath his scowl. It looked as though it had been a very bad day at his clinic for the poor.
“Slàinte.” The surgeon took a quick swallow and looked to her. “Spirits usually signify a solemn occasion. Has someone died?”
Wrexford shifted in his chair. “Stubble the humor and take a seat, Baz. Mrs. Sloane will explain once—”
“What’s this—another dead body?” quipped Sheffield as McClellan escorted him into the parlor.
“In a manner of speaking,” replied Charlotte. She had taken pains to rehearse a formal speech, but given her audience and their unpredictable sense of humor, she realized improvising was probably a wiser choice.
“I shall explain what that means once everyone is settled.” She looked at McClellan, whose expression—like those of the others—was alight with curiosity. “I’d like for you to stay as well.”
The maid quickly slid into the spot next to Charlotte, while Sheffield hurried to join Henning on the settee. Raven and Hawk were sitting cross-legged on the carpet at Wrexford’s feet. A low word from him stilled their fidgeting.
An expectant silence gripped the room.
Charlotte made herself take a breath. “We’ve investigated murders before—”
“And done a damnably good job at solving them,” piped up Henning.
“Kindly refrain from interruptions,” snapped the earl.
The surgeon gave an apologetic shrug and took another slurp of spirits.
“As I was saying, we’ve investigated murders before, but never one with such a personal connection as this latest Bloody Butcher crime.”
Sheffield frowned.
“The victim, Lord Chittenden, was one of my closest childhood friends.” Charlotte darted a look around at her six companions.
Friendship. Despite her fears and worries, she felt a smile quiver at the corners of her mouth.
Friendship came in all sorts of unexpected guises.
Which perhaps made it that much more profound.
A special camaraderie bound them together . . .
Shaking off the momentary musing, she steadied herself for the moment of final revelation.
“He was also . . . my cousin.”
Suddenly everyone was speaking at once.
Henning swore as he jerked up from his slouch and sloshed the amber whisky from his glass into his lap.
“That would mean . . .” exclaimed Sheffield overriding the surgeon’s oath.
“Is m’lady really m’lady?” demanded Raven as Hawk mumbled in confusion.
“Quiet!” commanded Wrexford.
The cacophony instantly ceased.
Charlotte swallowed a nervous laugh. “Thank you, milord.”
He nodded and signaled her to continue.
“I’d prefer to avoid sounding like a melodramatic novel and simply recount the facts,” she began.
A glint of amusement lit in the earl’s eyes, which oddly enough helped settle her jumpy nerves.
“So the facts are these—I was born Charlotte Sophia Anna Mallory, the only daughter of the Earl of Wolcott. Even as a child, I chafed against the rigid rules governing a lady’s behavior.
I was constantly rebelling . . .” She looked to Raven and Hawk, who were listening intently.
“Which infuriated my parents. It made life very difficult for all of us. The more they sought to force me to conform, the more I was determined not to allow my spirit to be crushed. However gilded, I simply couldn’t bear to live within a cage. ”
Am I sounding too maudlin? Charlotte paused for a moment and quirked a grimace. “Quite likely, many of their chidings were deserved. We’re never quite as wise as we think we are at that age.”
Henning’s muffled chuckle was echoed by a small cough from McClellan.
“Wise or not, at age seventeen, I made the impetuous decision to elope with Anthony Sloane, a young man of modest birth who was my drawing teacher. We shared a love of art and an adventurous spirit, which led us to flee to Italy. And for a time, we were very happy in Rome.” She looked at her lap, remembering the clarity of the sunlight on the ancient marble ruins.
“But Anthony found it hard to maintain an optimistic outlook. When the success he thought he deserved didn’t come quickly, he became discouraged. ”
Her voice faltered as Charlotte thought of her late husband’s struggles with his inner demons. Guilt pinched at her heart. Had she done enough to help him? There had been times when his surrender to self-pity had exasperated her and she hadn’t been as supportive as she would have liked.
“We returned to London, and then I eventually became acquainted with all of you.” She lifted her shoulders.
“That’s really all there is to tell about the past. What really matters is the present and the immediate future.
You see, I’ve come to the conclusion that in order to have any chance of proving Nicholas Locke—who is also my cousin—innocent, I must be able to move freely within the highest circles of Society.
And to do so, I must come out of the shadows, so to speak, and gain entrée to the ton. ”
“Let us help,” said Sheffield without hesitation. “My grandmother is rather influential, and as she’s very fond of me—Lord only knows why—I’m sure I can enlist her aid. And Wrex, of course, has some clout.” A grin. “Despite his awful reputation.”
Charlotte swallowed a lump in her throat.
“What about your own family?” asked Henning.
“They disowned me long ago. But, thankfully, my brother Wynton, the present earl, also inherited my late father’s dislike of London, so by the time he hears of my reappearance, the murder investigation will be over.” One way or another.
Sheffield’s face pinched in concern. “Are you not aware . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’m very sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your brother Wynton was thrown from his horse during a fox hunt two years ago and broke his neck.”
Her hands knotted together. But try as she might, Charlotte couldn’t muster any real grief.
“I’m very sorry,” repeated Sheffield, his gaze full of sympathy.
“I wasn’t aware of his death—as you know, I don’t pay much heed to the social world of the beau monde,” murmured Wrexford. “I’m sorry, too.”
“Don’t be. We were not close.” Wynton had been a stiff, pompous prig. His first few letters to her had been cruel and spiteful—she sensed he had taken great glee in telling her how he had convinced their father to expunge her name from the family Bible. She had soon stopped reading them.
“Drink this.” McClellan returned from the sideboard with a glass of whisky.
“I’m not in a state of shock,” she murmured.
“Drink,” ordered Wrexford.
Charlotte quaffed a quick swallow, and to her surprise, the fiery heat sent a welcome warmth spiraling through her core. “If Wynton is dead, that would mean—”
“Your brother Hartley is now the earl,” confirmed Sheffield.
Hartley. Dare she hope . . .
Charlotte took another sip. Whatever Hartley’s opinion of his wayward sister, it couldn’t possibly be any worse than that of Wynton.
It was Wrexford, ever the paragon of dispassionate logic, who broke the awkward silence. “Those complications will all be sorted out later. At present, we need to stay focused on the task at hand. Mrs. Sloane—or rather, Lady Charlotte, as we all must now call her—”
“You see, Mr. Sheffield, there is a dead body,” she interrupted with a shaky laugh.
“My old self has now stuck its spoon in the wall.” Much as she wished to protest, she knew the earl was right.
A highborn lady who married a commoner retained the right to be called a lady if she so chose.
To have any chance of success among the ton, she must now become Lady Charlotte Sloane.
“Lady Charlotte.” Sheffield inclined a graceful bow.
She shuddered, suddenly feeling as if her ribs were twisting into a steel cage around her heart.
“There’s no need for histrionics, milady,” countered the earl. “With a modicum of discretion and some adroit maneuvering, we should be able to guard your most important secrets.”
“That will depend a great deal on Lady Peake, and how tolerant she is willing to be,” replied Charlotte, finally giving voice to the fear that had been tormenting her for the past few days.
Could she find a way to be two different people?
Giving up A. J. Quill would be like having her very soul ripped from her being.
“Yes, it will,” agreed Wrexford. “But my sense is, the Dragon will greatly enjoy breathing a little fire on the backsides of the pompous prigs of the ton.”
She swallowed the last mouthful of whisky and let it burn down her throat before replying. “We shall soon find out.”
The earl regarded her for a long moment.
Charlotte dropped her gaze. Damn his eyes for making me feel so naked.
Turning to the others, Wrexford announced, “Now that we’ve finished with the revelations, it seemed to me that there’s nothing more to be accomplished this evening.
I suggest we all leave Lady Charlotte in peace for the time being.
” He rose. “Weasels, accompany Henning and Sheffield to the garden exit and make sure they slip away unseen.”
Raven hesitated for an instant, then nudged his brother. “I s’pose we better. Without us, they’ll likely make a muck of it.”
As the men trooped out of the parlor, McClellan got to her feet and collected the empty glasses. “I’ll tidy up in the kitchen,” she murmured.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Charlotte alone with the earl.
She still didn’t look up, afraid of revealing what a fraud she was. All her brave talk about being willing to face the consequences was naught but hot breath and bravado. At this moment, she would have given anything to be plain Charlotte Sloane—a Nobody—again.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” said Wrexford as he moved to the sideboard and splashed the last of the whisky into a glass. “You thrive on challenges. This one will be no worse than those that have come before.”
The coolness of his voice nettled. “That is oh-so easy for you to say. You’re not having your life blown to flinders.”
Candlelight caught in the swirling amber spirits, sending shadows skittering over his face as he lifted the glass to his lips. “As I recall, you used those exact words to describe your elopement.” A quick swallow. “Without a smidgeon of regret, I might add.”
“Stop being the Voice of Reason,” she muttered. “It’s quite annoying when you insist on being so infuriatingly logical.”
He laughed.
“I won’t give up my pen,” she added. “If I have to disappear—yet again—I will do so after Nicky’s situation is resolved. London is a large city. I’ll find someplace within its neighborhoods where I can slip back into anonymity.”
“Of course, that can be done, if you so choose,” he answered, “but I don’t think it will be necessary.
These days, there are more Bluestockings within the ton than you might think—ladies who prefer intellectual pursuits rather than the superficial swirl of tea and gossip.
If you choose to attend salons that cater to intellectual discussions rather than the endless circle of balls and soirees, Society with quickly deem you an eccentric—or, more politely, an Original—and promptly lose interest in you.
Especially when the next scandal or juicy bit of gossip rears its ugly head. ”
Wrexford gave another swirl of his glass. “And as you know well, there is always a new scandal or bit of gossip to make people forget about last week’s news.”
“So you’re saying that even within the ton, it’s possible to live hidden in the shadows?”
“Yes. They’re simply silkier and scented with a more pleasant perfume than the ones in your past.”
She blew out her breath, only to have it end in a grudging chuckle. “Thank God for your biting cynicism. Without it, I’m not sure I’d have the nerve to take the next step.”
“You’ll find a way,” said the earl.
“Aut inveniam viam aut faciam,” she murmured. I will either find a way or make one.
For a long moment, Wrexford appeared distracted by a ripple of light in his whisky. He then quaffed the dregs and set his glass down beside the empty bottle. “Have you arranged a meeting with Lady Peake?”
“Not yet. I sent my letter this afternoon suggesting we meet for a stroll in Green Park and am awaiting a response.” Charlotte grimaced. “A neutral location seems wise in case . . . in case things don’t go well.”
“You could always employ a spot of blackmail if the dowager proves difficult,” drawled Wrexford.
Charlotte let out a dismissive snort. “And just what sort of power do you imagine I have over her?”
“A. J. Quill,” he answered. “Tell her you’re acquainted with the artist and a refusal to help you will result in a highly unflattering series on her quarrel with the Duchess of Berryhill.”
“First of all, I would never stoop to such pettiness—it would be unethical to use my art for personal reasons,” retorted Charlotte.
“Yes, but she doesn’t know that.”
“And secondly,” said Charlotte, ignoring his quip, “since you are always so pragmatic, allow me to point out that to my knowledge, there is no quarrel between her and the duchess.”
His lips twitched. “Everyone has a quarrel with the duchess. She’s a sharp-tongued, dull-witted battle-axe.”
Charlotte pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Go away, Wrexford,” she muttered, unsure of whether she was about to laugh or cry. “My head is beginning to ache.”
“Very well. Good night, Lady Charlotte.” As he moved for the door, he paused to smooth an errant curl back from her brow. A fleeting caress, so quickly done that perhaps she had merely imagined it.
And yet, as Charlotte watched his dark-on-dark silhouette meld into the shadows, its warmth seemed to linger.